Because the beaver isn't just an animal; it's an ecosystem!

Tag: Ben Goldfarb


We all know beavers are blamed for everything. For floods and droughts and giardiasis and crop failure. Well if you have even one friend who knows you like beavers you received a panicked copy of some version of this article yesterday. Because apparently they cause climate change too.

The Newest Threat to a Warming Alaskan Arctic: Beavers

The large rodents are creating lakes that accelerate the thawing of frozen soils and potentially increase greenhouse gas emissions, a study finds.

Alaskan beavers are carving out a growing web of channels, dams and ponds in the frozen Arctic tundra of northwestern Alaska, helping to turn it into a soggy sponge that intensifies global warming.

On the Baldwin Peninsula, near Kotzebue, for example, the big rodents have been so busy that they’re hastening the regional thawing of the permafrost, raising new concerns about how fast those organic frozen soils will melt and release long-trapped greenhouse gases into the atmosphere, said scientists who are studying the beavers’ activity.

The number of new beaver dams and lakes continues to grow exponentially, suggesting that “beavers are a greater influence than climate on surface water extent,” said University of Alaska, Fairbanks scientist Ken Tape, a co-author of a new beaver and permafrost study published today in the journal Environmental Research Letters.

Those rotten beavers. Always going where they’re not wanted. If they weren’t there the permafrost would be melting much slower and we could keep right on pretending climate change wasn’t real!

The bigger and deeper the pools made by the beavers, the warmer the water. The larger pools hold heat longer, which delays refreezing in autumn. Tape said Arctic vegetation, permafrost, hydrology and wildlife are all linked. Even against the backdrop of other recent Arctic global warming extremes, like raging wildfires, record heat waves and dwindling glaciers and sea ice, the impact of beavers stands out, he said. 

“It’s not gradual change,” he said. “It’s like hitting the landscape with a hammer.”

“And it’s a continual change that the Arctic is just not used to,” he added.

Ooof! Hitting the artic landscape with a hammer! Good lord what a vivid image. Don’t you just hate those rotten beavers. What happens to the ruined landscape after they work their nasty will? Does it just sit there with those ponds festering?

No it does not.

Another way to see them is as “agents of Arctic adaptation,” said Ben Goldfarb, author of a recent natural history book that shows how beavers could help many other species, including humans, survive the era of rapid, human-caused climate change. 

“Beavers create fantastic habitat for all kinds of species, like songbirds and moose,” Goldfarb said. “All of those species are moving northward because of climate change, and beavers are preparing the way.” As a habitat-creating keystone species, beavers are also important food for wolves, and recent research shows that beaver ponds are good at keeping carbon locked up, he added.

Beavers may even hold the key to survival for some salmon species that are losing their streams to global warming and other changes farther south.

“We’re losing salmon in other places. If they’re going to shift their climate envelope, they’re probably going to need beavers to help them,” Goldfarb said.

Thank god for Ben. What would we ever do without him? I just want to fire him at these articles like a water canon and hope he puts the stupid out. He won’t of course. You know that someone somewhere is going to propose we just KILL all the beavers and problem solved, no more CLIMATE CHANGE!

If beavers are the primary drivers of permafrost degradation on the Baldwin Peninsula, that has wider implications for tracking surface area changes across similar parts of the Arctic where beavers may advance, he said.

In lowland Arctic regions, the basins favored by beavers can account for 50 to 80 percent of the landscape. Currently, more than 10,000 beaver dams have been mapped across northwestern Alaska and that data is being used in models to pinpoint the impacts of the new water bodies on permafrost and the carbon cycle.

Permafrost researcher Merrit Turetsky, director of the University of Colorado, Boulder’s Institute of Arctic and Alpine Research, said it’s not yet clear how beaver impacts may affect regional-scale carbon cycles, but that it’s ” important to pay attention to all ecosystem-engineers such as the beaver.”

Yeah yeah yeah.  Those darn carbon based beavers. WIth their greenhouses gasses ruining everything. Here’s what Emily Fairfax had to say about this research.

Really frustrated to read this CNN article and the study that it is based on. Seems to be a fundamental misunderstanding of what beaver ponds are and are not. They are not the same as big arctic lakes. The study includes no actual measurements of permafrost degradation.

It’s 100% possible, and likely, that large beaver ponds that are not freezing thru in winter are accelerating permafrost degradation. I’m not arguing w/ that. Degradation happens when water bodies don’t freeze thru in winter & keep relatively warm water on the land surface. 2/n

But the study doesn’t measure pond depth. Or dam height. Or actual changes in permafrost structure/hydrology. They just measure number of beaver dams and pond surface area over time. They accurately showed that beavers are moving into the arctic. 3/n

But it doesn’t show how many of those ponds are staying unfrozen year round. Primary dams tend to be taller than secondary dams, and time to freeze thru depends on water depth. Beavers don’t want their primary pond freezing, but are less concerned with secondary ponds. 4/n

In a typical landscape, 80-85% of dams are going to be secondary dams. Shorter dams. Shallower ponds. These will probably freeze thru in the high arctic! There are simple 1D models for lake ice thickness to see how long it takes to freeze to a given depth for a given climate.

Of course there are no measurements. This entire study is speculation by satellite. They don’t want to get their boots all mucky. But here’s one final parting thought from Emily.

Know what releases a huge amount of greenhouse gasses? Wildfire in the arctic. Maybe the beavers are helping by keeping the ground wet even during summer. Maybe not. We don’t know without collecting the relevant data.

Sure humans are causing climate change and ruining the permafrost. But beavers are making it faster!  Now the BP trucks can’t even drive across the tundra three months of the year! How can they keep making money hand over fist? I ask you.


Finally a moment to reflect on Ben’s new article about  an end of life beaver story. This one about Brittany in New York. It was published this week in the writers blog “The last word on Nothing.”

Brittany and the Beavers

Since I published a book about beavers two years ago, I’ve heard from dozens, maybe hundreds, of readers with their own beaver experiences to share. This is a wonderful perk of authorhood: When you tell your own story, you attract others. I’ve gotten emails from folks who have hand-fed blackberries to wild beavers, who have seen beavers build dams entirely of rock, who have watched beavers frolic like seals in the Baltic Sea. Just last month I received the unsolicited memoir of a guy who once resuscitated a drowning beaver. Yes, mouth-to-mouth. 

Most writers, I’m sure, get some version of this correspondence. Still, there’s something about beavers — their human-like family structures, their penchant for construction — that seems to foster personal connection. They enter lives in unexpected ways. They channel joy and grief. Today, I want to relate one such saga, courtesy of a woman named Brittany. I’ll warn you that Brittany’s story is about illness and death. It’s also about life and love. And beavers. It’s definitely about beavers.

Every time Ben introduces a story line I start to relax and settle in for a nice long read. He has such a winding and familiar prose style that I couldn’t be more comfortable unless the subject was about beavers. Which of course it is. This time through the eyes of Brittany in Cuba New York.

In adulthood, the siblings drifted apart. Zach stayed at home, cycled in and out of college, worked at a cheese factory. Brittany, a high achiever, moved to West Virginia to teach at a university. Around 2010, though, she, her husband, and their kids returned to Cuba after receiving terrible news. Zach, at age 24, had been diagnosed with glioblastoma, an aggressive, almost invariably fatal brain cancer. Brittany’s brother was going to die.

One day in 2016, Brittany, along with her sister, her niece, and her mom, took Zach on a final field trip. A lifelong animal lover, Zach had a special thing for turtles; he even owned a painted turtle, a female named Gary, that their sister brought back once from Myrtle Beach. (It’s still alive today, in the care of their mother). Zach’s dying wish was to visit Moss Lake, a turtle hotspot. “I can remember trying to get him in the car — it was so tragic but so funny,” said Brittany, who has a gift for smiling through pain. “It’s horrible because he’s dying, he can’t move. But at the same time, we’re all laughing because his gut is hanging out, he’s swearing, there’s a cigarette coming out of his mouth, his catheter is falling out of his pocket.” Alas, the turtles weren’t out, but it was still a lovely afternoon. In a photo Brittany sent me from that day, Zach sits flanked by his family, five backs to the camera, their arms twined around each other’s shoulders, the dark timber across the lake reflected in the water’s silver bowl.

Two weeks later, Zach died. Brittany’s family poured his ashes into Moss Lake — illegally, which Zach would have appreciated. The turtles surfaced and ate them all.

So the lovingly described brother dies, and the family builds a bench or him at the cemetery. And she like to go there to remember him. And the cemetery is in a wetlands which is where we all should be buried..

During one of her vigils soon after Zach died, Brittany spotted a V-shaped wake carving through the swamp. The wake was cast, she realized, by the head of a beaver, the first she’d seen. Brittany, a casual but enthusiastic nature-lover, was thrilled. When she next came to the cemetery, she saw beavers again, and again the time after that. Beavers are ordinarily nocturnal, but this colony was bold and active during the day, perhaps because it had habituated to the cemetery’s foot traffic. Soon Brittany was visiting five days a week, for hours at a time. “I’m at the cemetery trying to feel some peace,” she wrote in her journal one day in July. “And I saw the beavers and Zach would have loved them.”

Peace, at the time, was hard to come by. In the aftermath of Zach’s death, Brittany’s family melted down into chaos and drama; no need to divulge specifics, but suffice to say that, when she compares the situation to Jerry Springer, she may actually be underselling it. The beavers transcended the bullshit. “They were so majestic, so blissfully unaware of the horrors of everything going around,” she recalled. They were, it seemed to her, manifestations of our better natures. They lived in tight family units, like Brittany’s own clan, and they were fiercely devoted to their kits, as Brittany was to her children. But they were also blessedly drama-free, practical, industrious. They did not dread death; they did not betray each other. They were akin to humans, yet superior to them. They also led double lives — sleek and graceful in the water, clumsy and uncomfortable out of it — that seemed to reflect humanity’s own dualism, Zach’s own dualism, how we can at once be so generous and kind and callous and mean, how we all contain multitudes. 

Yes, of course these are the very same thoughts I’ve had watching beavers. And maybe you’ve had too. Because there is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before.

A few months later, Brittany’s health began to deteriorate. She felt dizzy and fatigued; she struggled to walk. At the hospital, a wild thought rushed through her aching head: that, although glioblastoma is not hereditary, she had contracted the same disease that felled her brother. She didn’t fear death itself, but she was terrified by the thought of leaving behind her four children. The next day, she received her diagnosis: an aggressive form of multiple sclerosis. Another person might have grieved. Brittany, though, had expected incurable cancer. “I was so relieved,” she said. “I don’t think I even cried once. Like, whatever, I’ll get over it.” She threw herself into exercise and literature; although she occasionally requires a cane, her life has continued mostly unaltered. 

Yeah, yeah, yeah. All the best beaver people do. Who knew I was a type?

Brittany and I spoke in late May, amidst an unprecedented societal lockdown. All over the country, people were adjusting to smaller, quieter lives, as Brittany had, and escaping their deepening depressions through nature, as Brittany once did. Gardening was ascendant; so was birdwatching. We were all trying to connect with forces deeper and simpler, to commune with creatures blessedly detached from a world that we’d ruined. That, in the end, was what Brittany loved most about beavers: “They’re so unaware,” she said, “of the shit that we go through.”

Yup.


Someday it’s a great day to be a beaver-believer. This article combining Ben Golfarb’s excellent book with the recent struggles at Warner Park in Madison Wisconsin makes me proud to be a member of the club.

‘Dam It! WI Is a Backward Beaver State’

In April 2017, a quiet war was being waged over Warner Park’s resident beavers. Apart from a handful of local news articles, the dispute came and went free from the public eye.

Beavers — not exactly known to fit the human definition of orderly — made their presence evident at the park by damaging and felling trees. The city’s Parks Division contracted a trapper, reasoning the flooding risk posed by the beavers’ dam outweighed their benefits.

Unaware of the city’s plan and outraged at the prospect of beavers being removed, citizens decided to take traps into their own hands. The safety risk posed to those doing so forced the Madison Parks Division to remove the remaining traps.

While the traps are gone, whether or not the issue has been resolved is subject to debate. The positives and negatives of living with, or without, beavers have not been discussed on a city-wide scale.

However, Ben Goldfarb, the author of “Eager: The Surprising, Secret Life of Beavers and Why They Matter,” has offered a framework for doing so.

Ta-daa! Hi Ben, I am SO happy your book was written and you are willing to trot about the countryside and remind people why beavers matter.

Goldfarb, an award-winning environmental journalist, visited Madison’s Olbrich Botanical Gardens on Feb. 20 to speak about beavers and their ability to solve a range of environmental issues.

The problems Madison lakes face are products of land management and infrastructure choices, UW-Limnology wrote. Chemical run-off, chiefly nitrogen and phosphorus, is creating “unsightly and unsafe” lake conditions. 

Beavers are the “landscape Swiss Army knives,” as Goldfarb refers to them, that can fix all of the above. Their dams slow water — creating wetlands — which can sequester pollution, prevent erosion and slow flooding.

Goldfarb and other self-proclaimed “Beaver Believers” not only trust in the rodents’ capacity to “tackle just about any ecological dilemma” but recognize compromise may be a part of doing so. The passionate, eclectic group supports coexistence efforts rather than removal.

Flow devices are one of the many tools being used to moderate conflicts between humans and their paddle-tailed neighbors, Goldfarb said. Most flow devices — including Skip Lisle’s Beaver Deceiver and Mike Callahan’s Pond Leveler system — consist of a water outlet and fencing.

“A passionate, eclectic group.” Aww shucks, you’ll make me blush. Yup that’s us. It takes a village. We’re a mixed bag, A heterogeneous bunch of grapes if you will.

Goldfarb concluded with the words of fellow Beaver Believer Kent Woodruff, which capture the essence of beaver belief.

“We’re not smart enough to know what a fully functional ecosystem looks like. But they are.”

Ohh be still my heart! I just love this beaver club we’re in. Don’t you? Excellent work, Ben. Sometimes I get the feeling a tide is turning.

The gentleman from South Carolina who wrote me about the beaver living under his house noticed that it had an injury so I suggested taking it to rehab. Yesterday Carolina Wildlife Care came and trapped and took it away . Maybe you have some pocket change you can send their way to thank them and help pay for its treatment and board?

 

 


Go ahead. Isolate Ben Goldfarb for a couple weeks. I dare you. This is what you get. You can’t keep a good beaver-man down, I always say.

Ben created this for teachers and students to educate during the hiatus. I’d guess highschool or middle school. The primary grades seem a little beyond its reach, But I’m sure he’ll do a liter version soon. The shots of him with his beatnik uncut locks make me smile.

Stay tuned to the end because the part about using google maps to find beaver dams is my favorite!

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This was on the the news the other day in Chesterfield Virginia. Lori Gongaware thinks she should be in the Guinness book of World Records for her beaver collection. I coughed politely into my beaver handkerchief and wished her well.

Chesterfield woman hopes to break Guinness World Record with her beaver collection

“I tend to take things to an extreme,” said collector Lori Gongaware.”

Lori says this all started as a joke but that joke blossomed into a collection that now takes up a whole room in her home.

“I thought ‘wouldn’t it be funny to have a beaver collection that was beaver animals but then have one beaver-cleaver from beaver-cleaver,’” said Gongaware. “I got everything. I got bottle openers, coffee cups, stampers, pencil sharpers and even a tattoo.”

Lori’s love for beavers has brought her more than just joy, but a chance to land her in the record books. “When I first started think of the record I was like gosh, I think that I probably have the most beaver items of anyone,” said Gongaware.

 I can only smile indulgently say “Bless her heart” and pat her affectionately on the shoulder. Because the inside of my entire home, car, garden and garage would make the inside of her guest bedroom look like a n scale dollhouse. My collection came through design and accident and gifts and projects and silent auction items from around the world that we had to bid on because they were too cool to pass up. My collection is a working collection. meaning anyone of those beavers might be used for a event or purpose on any given day, An art project an educational tool or an exhibit or a christmas tree.

There’s a nice video of Lori’s collection at the link that I sadly can’t share here. It provides an excellent opportunity to say how many of these I already have. 1456? Good lord if you were to include children’s creations I would be many times that figure. Here is what Ben Goldfarb had to say about it in Eager. I was deeply offended when I first read it because it makes me look like a kook. But I have since accepted the truth and realized I kind of am.

To my knowledge, the world’s largest collection of beaver-themed tchotchkes, knickknacks, and memorabilia is housed in an oak-shaded street in Martinez, California. To enter, you must pass beneath the mural that hangs over the front porch — a reddish beaver, stick grasped in forepaws, tail raised in salutation. The dim interior has the feel of a shrine. Beaver magnets cling to the refrigerator; plush beavers perch atop the bureaus; a gallery’s worth of beaver paintings, prints, and posters stare down from every wall. Gnawed stumps rest next to the fireplace. Embroidered beaver napkins hang in the kitchen. In the backyard, a clay beaver crouches in the birdbath. If I’d come during Christmas, I would have seen a cardboard beaver cut-out, roughly the size of a black bear, strung with lights on the front lawn.

The fanatical curator of this collection is a candid, vivacious woman named Heidi Perryman, a child psychologist who, through willpower and single-mindedness, has become one of the planet’s foremost authorities on Castor canadensis. After months of exchanged emails, Perryman and I resolved to rendezvous in Martinez on the Fourth of July.

So go ahead, Lori. Be in the Guinness book of records. But we all know the truth. And it’s already in print.

 

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